


Intimidation Tactics

by astxrwar



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Explicit Sex, F/M, James Wesley is a warning all on it's own, Porn, Shameless Smut, honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 16:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5935075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/astxrwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Wesley is threatening and James Wesley is handsome and James Wesley is, above all, dangerous.<br/>It's not something you have any difficulty remembering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: James Wesley being a fuckin’ creep. I’m serious, if guys purposely intimidating women squicks you, do not read.
> 
> Word Count: 3.5k
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at astxrwar.tumblr.com!

Author’s Note: Yes, I am trash. If you would like a smutty part 2, hit me up with an ask or something!

Rating: T/M, nothing really explicit but it is HEAVILY implied towards the end

Warning: James Wesley being a fuckin’ creep. I’m serious, if guys purposely intimidating women squicks you, do not read.

Word Count: 3.5k

* * *

 

The man from Confederated Global Investments is—

Handsome.

You hadn’t been expecting that.

He’s handsome, and he’s well-spoken, and he’s _disturbingly_ charismatic, and he introduces himself with a crooked grin and takes your hand and presses a barely-there kiss to your knuckles like it’s nothing, his thumb just barely skimming over the pulse point at the flat of your wrist, pressing down, noting the way your heartbeat stutters and skips. You try not to shiver.

“James Wesley,” He says. His voice is rich and smooth and deliberate—aristocratic, really—and the way he’s looking at you makes your cheeks flare with suffocating, blistering heat. “And, of course, I know who you are, (Name)—may I call you (Name)?”

“I—“ you start to say, fiddling uncomfortably with the strap of your bookbag.

“Actually, I think Miss (Last Name) would be more appropriate,” Matt interrupts. He steps forward, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder, and he’s smiling, but it looks—fake, strained, taut—and his hand tightens almost imperceptibly around the handle of his walking stick.

Wesley huffs out a laugh, and raises an eyebrow, his eyes flickering from Matt to Karen to Foggy _,_ his gaze steady, deliberate, even, searching and studying and _assessing_ them, one by one. His eyes focus back on yours. They’re piercing and bright and suddenly you find yourself itching to take a very large step backwards. You don’t.

Slowly, he releases your hand. His skin is warm and soft and faintly calloused.

“Of course,” Wesley says, a tiny little ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Although, I’m sure we’ll get to know each other well enough by the time this is over. Don’t you think?”

You swallow thickly.

It doesn’t sound like a challenge. It doesn’t sound like a threat.

It sounds like a _promise._

You shiver. He notices.

And he smiles.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The meeting itself is uneventful.

Afterwards, Karen and Matt and Foggy pack up their notes and binders and head out front to catch a cab. You had parked in back. After spending a good five minutes assuring Matt that yes, you would be fine on your own, and yes, you would be careful, and yes, you know that it’s dangerous, you head for the elevator, alone.

And Wesley is there.

He’s leaned up against the wall opposite the conference room, one hand thrust into his pocket, the other holding a slim new-model smartphone out in front of him. His tie—charcoal grey, not quite black—is knotted loosely around his throat, disappearing into his neatly buttoned jacket. He’s tall, and lean, and he looks vaguely imposing in the crisp, tight-fitted lines of his suit, emanating confidence and a self-assured sort of power. You bite down on your lower lip.

“Miss (Last Name),” Wesley says, straightening up and walking towards you, sliding his phone back into his jacket pocket. He sounds surprised. For some reason, you don’t think it’s genuine.

“Oh—Hi,” you say, painfully aware of the rapidly dwindling space between the two of you, and even though he stops a foot away, it still feels too close.

“I assumed you would have left with your— _associates_ ,” he says, tilting his head and smiling faintly, “For lack of a better word.”

“No, they—they took a cab,” you explain, wincing at the way your voice wavers and the way his eyebrow arches because he’s noticed, of course he noticed—“I parked out back, so I was just—”

The elevator bell chimes. You fall silent.

The stainless steel doors glide open, and Wesley steps inside, his Oxfords—Gucci or Prada or Salvatore, probably, something expensive and Italian— scuffing against the blood-red carpet. Dimly, you realize you have no other choice but to follow.

The doors slide shut.

“First floor?” he asks politely.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His hand lingers by the panels of buttons, traces around the edges of the one marked with a black “1”. Unease trickles down your spine.

“Can I ask you something, Miss (Last Name)?” Wesley inquires, cocking his head to the side. He turns to face you.

He didn’t press the button. The doors are closed. Suddenly, the elevator seems a lot smaller.

You bite your lip. “Sure. I mean—of course.”

His mouth curves into what might have passed as a reassuring smile. But you know better.

He takes a step towards you. You take a step back. The cool metal railing along the wood-paneled wall digs into your spine, and you nervously smooth your hands down the rumpled front of your skirt.

Wesley moves closer. “Why is it that you look so afraid of me?” he asks, his voice calm, _casual,_ as the space between the two of you gets smaller and smaller, as your heartbeat speeds up and your blood pounds through your veins, unnaturally fast, unnaturally hard—

“I’m not afraid of you,” you manage to say, pushing past the discomfort buzzing like electricity in your stomach, like lightning or like thunder or like the stupid faulty wiring in Matt and Foggy’s office— “I don’t…I barely know you, Mr.—“

“Please,” he interrupts. “I prefer just Wesley.”

He moves closer. Your breath catches.

“Wesley, then.”

He cocks his head, lets a crooked, deliberate smile spread slowly across his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to upset you.”

You shiver, and fold your arms over your chest. “It’s—fine.”

He takes one more step.

You stop breathing. You stop moving. You stop _thinking._

“I’d just hate to think anyone I worked with would feel uncomfortable around me, you understand,” Wesley says.

And—his voice isn’t more than a whisper, now, a murmur, his head is tilted down and he’s standing close, he’s standing _too_ close, he smells faintly of sandalwood and something rich and warm and—and _bad for you,_ you remind yourself, _very very bad—_

“I don’t,” you choke out. “I’m just—getting used to things. I’m—it’s fine.”

“Good.” Wesley huffs out a quiet chuckle, and smiles, looks down at you, his eyes dark and intense and unnervingly focused, “I’m glad this was taken care of.”

And then—

He steps back.

You exhale shakily.

He adjusts his tie, and he presses the button for the ground floor.

The elevator jolts and begins to move.

You straighten the hem of your skirt.

Wesley smoothens out the creases in his suit cuffs.

The doors open with a ding.

“Oh, and, (Name)—“ he says, “I apologize if I caused you any discomfort. I’d hate for us to get off on a bad start.”

His hand lingers for an inappropriately long moment on the small of your back as he ushers you through the doors.

He really is a brilliant liar.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Wesley comes to watch the court proceedings for the first case.

He’s in the third row of hard-backed mahogany benches, his navy-blue suit crisp and impeccable as always, and he doesn’t even _move,_ he just sits there and stares at the back of your head as you struggle to remember the basis of what you’re doing.

After, he corners you in the stairwell.

“(Name),” he says.

You turn around slowly, the hem of your skirt swishing around your knees. “Wesley,” you manage to say. “Hi. I was, just, um—“

“Ah. I understand; you have places to be.” He smiles. It’s charming— _disarming—_ not that it meant anything _._ “I just wanted to say that you did an _amazing_ job today. Truly.”

“Oh. Well—Thank you,” you say awkwardly, your shoes clacking against the last few marble steps down to the carpeted landing. His hand brushes yours on the polished wooden banister, his skin warm and faintly calloused—and you don’t have to look at him to know that it’s not an accident, you don’t need to see that impossibly maddening perfect smirk on his face to know that he meant to do it, the suffocating pre-storm tension thick and heavy in the air is already enough—

You turn around anyway.

His eyes are dark. Your tie suddenly feels too tight, too constricting, knotted too closely around your neck. You fight the urge to loosen it.

“You’re sure Nelson and Murdock won’t reconsider the offer?” He continues, unaffected.

“No, I don’t—I don’t think so, I mean, we’ve got a lot going on already,” you stumble over your words, “With—um—you know, getting the firm up and running and stuff, it’s pretty hard—“

“I see,” Wesley muses, leaning against the wall, nonchalantly placing himself between you and the stairs. He grimaces. “Can’t imagine what that must be like, building up from scratch—You were presented with a rather promising career opportunity at Landman and Zack, as well, I believe? I’m surprised you didn’t accept.”

Your hands curl into fists around the fabric of your skirt. He’s standing a foot or so away from you, but still, it feels too close, the slant of his smile too deliberate, too confident _,_ the way his eyes rake over your body not quite fast enough to be casual. “I—well, I didn’t like what they were doing, I guess, so I just—decided not to.”

He studies you intently, and then sighs. “And I suppose there’s no chance you’ll reconsider my offer?”

You swallow, and shake your head. “No—sorry, but—no.”

“That’s… unfortunate. A shame, really,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing over the elaborate paneling on the walls, “My employer would greatly appreciate your… _talents._ ”

You swallow, cross your arms over your chest—and in a sudden swell of bravery, you say, “Your employer—Wilson Fisk, right? From the news?”

The words—the _name—_ it tastes bitter and filthy and _wrong,_ like it doesn’t fit, like it’s not meant to be spoken and it’s not meant to be used. You resist the urge to shudder. Deliberately, you straighten your shoulders.

Wesley tenses. His smile falters. He runs his tongue over his teeth.

You realize your mistake as he steps forward. He’s tall, but he’s not an athlete. He’s not built like Matt, he’s not strong, but he’s graceful and he’s confident and he moves with some sort of undefined _purpose,_ like he knows something that you don’t, like he’s aware of every single thing you do in a way that you can’t possibly understand. But that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that he’s walking towards you—gracefully, slowly, predatorily—and that you had backed up into a corner, the small of your back pressed up against the seam of the off-white wainscoting on the wall, your skirt hitched up, just a little, the fabric bunched around your thighs.

Wesley makes a sound, in the back of his throat—a breathless sort of laugh, unexpected and unsettling and _unplanned—_ and you wonder, briefly, what he’s thinking, because his face is impassive, his skin frozen and impeccably smooth, his eyes unreadable and dark and nearly mesmerizing—

He stops in front of you, head cocked to the side.

“Yes,” Wesley says. “Yes, he is my— _employer._ Why do you ask?”

He sounds unaffected. Careless, even, like it doesn’t affect him, like he’s not doing this on purpose, relishing in the tension between you.

You want to get away. You want to go and get out to your car and lock the doors, you want to find somewhere to hide so that you don’t have to deal with it, with _him,_ you want James Wesley to just up and disappear.

But—

You can’t move.

He’s so close that he could reach out and touch you, trail his fingers down the inside of your arm, trace the vein there all the way down to your wrist, and the thought—

It makes you freeze. It makes you stop breathing. It makes you press your thighs together, and it makes you shiver, and it makes you wonder what the hell is actually wrong with you.

You swallow. Your heart thunders dangerously, _treacherously,_ in the hollow of your ribcage. “I—don’t know. I was just—“

A faint, chilling smile flits across his face.

There’s a moment of pressing, suffocating, nearly tangible silence.

And then he laughs. Warmly. _Disarmingly._

“Of course. You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, adjusting his suit cuffs. “I’m still not adjusted to my—to _Mr. Fisk’s_ name being so—public.”

“It’s—it’s fine,” you stutter.

Wesley glances at his watch, frowns, and steps back. “Oh—I’m sorry, I’m going to be late to my next appointment,” he says apologetically. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon,” he pauses, laughs—“Until then, (Name).”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s not an accident.

You weren’t sure, not at first, because Wesley is an expert at invading personal boundaries while still staying within the confines of what is considered to be completely socially acceptable.

He’s polite. He’s charming. He’s the perfect gentleman. He holds open doors and pulls out your chair during appointments, he walks you to your car when the meetings last into the night—

It looks proper. Perfunctory. _Invisible._

Because he also looks at you strangely, and he corners you in stairwells and hallways and he lets his hand linger on your shoulder for just a second too long, leans down close to your ear to speak to you when you’re alone, standing just close enough to make you shiver but not enough for anyone else to notice.

Wesley finds you in a small, out-of-the-way library on a Thursday night. It’s not a coincidence. It’s not by chance.

It’s _deliberate._

You don’t bother wondering how he found you.

“(Name),” he says, his features perfectly arranged into an expression of polite surprise. “What are you doing here?”

You fight the urge to shudder, and plaster a tired smile on your face.

“Just—research,” you respond. You close your book—a dusty tome on obscure sub-laws in the state of New York—and stand up. Your chair scrapes back noisily.

Wesley glances down at the watch around his wrist, an expensive bronze-framed Rolex. “It’s late,” he comments, trailing after you. He’s standing uncomfortably close. You bite down on your bottom lip.

“Yeah, I was—I was just leaving,” you say, sliding the book back into place on the dusty shelf.

He lifts an eyebrow, as if pleasantly surprised. “So was I. It’s dark, I can walk you down to your car.”

You duck your head, adjusting the strap of your book bag. “Actually,” you stutter, “I- um, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“We’re both going to the same place,” he points out reasonably. “And the city can get quite dangerous at night. It would be rude of me not to offer you an escort.”

Your throat feels dry. “I—yeah, I guess so.”

His hand rests lightly between your shoulder blades, guiding you towards the door.

Wesley ushers you outside into the cold night air, still hazy with gasoline and exhaust fumes. You wrap your coat more tightly around yourself as the wind kicks up, your skirt rustling around your thighs.

Behind you, he library door closes with a creak of wood and the neat snick of the lock.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, and Wesley studies you intensely for a moment, his eyes bright and searing, cool grey-blue. Dimly, it registers that Matt and Foggy and Karen aren’t close by, ready to jump in and protect you, not this time—no, this time you are well and truly alone.

You lick your lips and very resolutely do not shiver.

He leads the way across the parking lot, his pace deliberately slow. _Grating._

“Do you enjoy spending time in the library?” he asks politely, looking down at you.

“I guess—yeah. I like to read.” You wrap your arms around your torso.

He smiles. “As do I.”

You continue on in silence, footsteps echoing against the cracked, sun-bleached pavement. The darkness seems almost suffocating, pressing in on all sides. You fight the urge to walk faster.

Wesley pauses.

“(Name), do you recall what I asked you in the elevator a few weeks ago?”

You hesitate. You glance over to your car, illuminated a few feet away in the yellow light of a street lamp, and you exhale shakily—because you had been _so close,_ so close to going home and getting away and being _safe—_

“No,” you lie, your voice soft.

And Wesley—

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. You can’t quite make out his expression in the darkness, but you don’t need to, not when the silence is so pressing, taut and heavy and nearly solid, really, forming a physical barrier between you. It gives you time to think. And when it was over, when he finally spoke again—

You would remember to move away. You would remember to step back.

You don’t.

“I asked you,” he says, his voice calm, _casual_ , almost, “If you were afraid of me.”

You swallow, and shift your weight, suddenly feeling dangerously off-balance. “Right. And—I said… I said no.”

“You lied. But—I knew that.” He chuckles, and takes a step forward. You move back, your thighs pressing up against the trunk of your car. “That’s not the point. The point is—I realized that I may have asked the wrong question.”

“Does it matter?”

He chuckles, and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, actually,” he says. “I think it does.”

He steps closer.

He steps into the light from the streetlamp.

Your breath catches.

Because—

Wesley is looking at you, staring, really, and his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded and _calculating_ , and he’s looking at you like _that._ Like he wants to pin you back against the trunk of your car and tug off your too-big overcoat and slide his hands up under your skirt. And _—_ the idea of it, the thought, the _possibility—_ it inspires a desperate pulsating _ache_ deep in your body, dull and hot, a mixture of dread and anticipation and something that you refuse to label as desire.

Except you’re breathing too fast. You press your thighs together.

He takes a step forward.

Just a step.

And then—

He’s suddenly close enough for you to reach out and touch him, if you wanted to, if you could bring yourself to physically move, and the crisp lines of his charcoal-grey suit barely brush against your skin when he raises his hand as if to brush your hair back from your forehead, but he doesn’t touch you. Of course he doesn’t touch you.

You inhale shakily; he smells like expensive cologne and aftershave and sandalwood, something that’s appealing even though it probably— _definitely—_ shouldn’t be, but you register your heartbeat skipping faster anyway.

“So,” Wesley murmurs, his voice rich and low and smooth, his mouth dangerously close to your ear, “I believe the real question would be—“

He pauses. You hold your breath.

“Miss (Last Name)—just how badly do you _actually_ want me?”

You go completely still.

Some small, insignificant part of your brain still capable of logical thought screams at you to leave. To run, as far and as fast as you could, to get in your car and lock the doors and _get away._ But you can’t. You can’t move. You can barely think.

“I—I don’t—“

“I’d like it if we could be honest with each other, he continues, his voice still casual. “It’s a simple question, really.”

You swallow. Your mouth is dry.

And you can’t—

You’re searching for something— _anything—_ to say, because the air feels pressing and heavy with possibilities and choices and your brain is short-circuiting with confusion and the utter inability to process what is happening, what you suspect is going to happen next.

“I could,” he murmurs, leaning forward, hands pressed up against the car, one on either side of your body, “Rather easily, I might add—I could reach out and unzip that _appallingly_ tiny skirt of yours, (Name). Right now. And you would let me, wouldn’t you? That would be an answer for the both of us, don’t you think? Would you like me to do that?”

His hands are gliding over your hips, inching down, barely brushing against your skin—and it’s something about the confidence in his voice or the way the insignia ring on his thumb catches in your waistband or the self-assured, challenging smirk stretching across his mouth, but it _gets_ to you, it liquefies your muscles and sends a barely noticeable tremor of _want_ through your bloodstream that shakes you right down to your core.

It would be so easy to just say yes.

Distantly, you hear the creak of the library door opening across the parking lot.

And then, just like that, the moment is severed.

He steps back. You inhale sharply.

And—

Wesley smiles. He smiles often, really, although it doesn’t usually mean anything—but this smile is different, because it’s small and it’s secretive and it’s calculating, and then he says,

“Goodnight, (Name). I expect you’ll think about what I’ve said.”

He turns away, and walks towards his car.

You stand there, shocked, even after he’s long gone.


	2. Chapter 2

When you get home that night you spend an inappropriately long time standing flash-frozen in the entrance hall to your tiny three-room apartment, drenched in the overly harsh fluorescent glow of your ceiling light.

You inhale sharply—

You can still smell Wesley’s cologne.

It lingers in the air and it clings to your skin and it inspires a feverish, sick sort of dread that anchors itself in the pit of your stomach, but it doesn’t feel _real._ It doesn’t feel like it happened. Like it was just a figment of your overactive imagination.

But the thing is—

You can remember with painful clarity the feeling of his stiff-pressed three-piece suit against your chest and your breaths dissolving together in the freezing air and the hum of his voice in your ear, low, smooth, sensuous— _I could unzip your **appallingly** tiny skirt right now, (Name), it would be so **easy** —_

And it was real. It was all real.

You take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, and exhale shakily. You shrug off your coat and place it on the hanger. You lock the door. You turn the dishwasher on. You take a quick shower, you throw on a tank top and a pair of sweatpants, you stretch out in your bed—

_“I expect you’ll think about what I’ve said.”_

You don’t sleep well that night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Three days later, there’s another court date.

You find yourself sitting in the second row of the spectators’ area on a hard-backed, wobbly wooden chair while Matt and Foggy handle the defense and the prosecutor manages to make such a complete mess of everything that you start to wonder if he actually completed law school at all.

Wesley isn’t there.

You shouldn’t be disappointed.

With a sigh, you tear your eyes away from the front of the room as the prosecutor calls up another character witness, and study the plain white wainscoting along the walls, tapping your fingers restlessly against the armrest of your chair. You can hear the faint roar of New York traffic from outside, the sputter of engines and loud, obnoxious horns, and the old-fashioned clock on the other wall ticking like a metronome, loud and slightly grating. You fight the urge to look and see how much time is left.

In your coat pocket, your phone vibrates quietly. You fish around for it, and tap the power button, glancing down at the fluorescent screen.

<[ _Hello._ ]

You don’t recognize the number. You frown slightly.

                                                                **[ _Who is this?_ ]>**

<[ _Unknown is typing_. . .]

<[ _Behind you. Fourth row, on the left._ ]

You hesitate. Because you’re unsettled—off balance—and you’re also not stupid, either, you know who you’re going to see when you glance back, and you’re not sure if you want to.

You do anyways.

Wesley is sitting in the fourth row, leaned back casually in his chair. Slowly, deliberately, he raises one hand and waves, a smirk stretching across his mouth.

You swallow thickly, and turn back around. You stare down at your phone’s keypad.

                                                                 **[ _How did you get my number?_ ]>**

<[ _Working for my employer comes with its benefits._ ]

                                                                  **[ _Right._ ]>**

You fight the impulse to glance back at him again. Instead, you look down at the glow of your phone screen, and type out,

                                                                **[ _What do you want?_ ]>**

<[ _Unknown is typing…_ ]

You look around. There are only two other people in your row, neither of which are sitting close enough to see what you’re doing. You relax slightly.

<[ _Who says I want anything?_ ]

                                                              **[ _Nobody. I’m just being logical.] >_**

<[ _Unknown is typing…_ ]

<[ _You seemed bored._ ]

<[ _I decided to strike up a conversation._ ]

<[ _There is no ulterior motive._ ]

You glance back at Wesley. He smiles disarmingly.

                                                              **[ _Okay._ ]>**

<[ _Unknown is typing…_ ]

<[ _Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson are handling this well._ ]

<[ _Don’t you think?_ ]

                                                            **[ _Yeah._ ]>**

<[ _I was disappointed I wouldn’t get to see you on the defense today._ ]

<[ _Any particular reason you’re not?_ ]

You frown, and chew on your bottom lip.

                                                           **[ _There were only two spots_.] >**

<[ _I see_.]

<[ _Unknown is typing…_ ]

<[ _May I ask you a personal question?_ ]

You hesitate for a brief, taut moment.

It’s a game. He’s always playing games. You know that. But it doesn’t feel like it—it feels bigger than that, more _important–_

                                                          **[ _It depends on what it is._ ]>**

<[ _That’s understandable._ ]

<[ _I wanted to know—Have you been thinking about me, (Name)?_ ]

You swallow. You glance around the room, your eyes lingering over Matt and Foggy.

                                                            **[ _What?_ ]>**

<[ _I asked if you’ve been thinking about me._ ]

<[ _I’m very curious, actually._ ]

You stare down at the phone screen, unsure of how to respond.

<[ _Surely you can be honest, (Name), it won’t be that difficult._ ]

<[ _It’s such an easy question._ ]

You press the ‘y’ key, then the ‘e’, your thumb lingering hesitantly over the ‘s’—

It would be so simple.

You click delete.

                             **[ _I thought you said you didn’t have an ulterior motive._ ]>**

<[ _I don’t. It’s just a question, (Name)._ ]

<[ _Have you?]_

You bite your bottom lip, rolling it between your teeth.

<[ _Come, now, it’s not so hard to admit, is it?_ ]

It crosses your mind that you could say yes just to knock him off balance.

There are worse things in the world than wanting him, you know it, you do, but you can’t seem to think of any of them right now, can’t seem to move past the painful inevitability of what he’s trying to do.

It’s just a _game._

But—

Your stomach is buzzing with spider-shock thrills of nervous energy and your chest feels tight and your palms are damp and there are tiny flickers of _anticipation_ flaring up and down your spine, twisting your insides, making you fight the desire to squirm in your seat or turn and look at him or just fucking _leave the courtroom entirely,_ make it all stop and go away and cease to exist—

Your phone lights up with another message.

<[ _That night, I wonder if you lay awake and thought about what I had said in the parking lot._ ]

<[ _Did you?_ ]

You could hardly sleep that night. You don’t even bother wondering how Wesley knows—of course, he knows, of course—

<[ _Did you touch yourself and think about me that night, (Name)? About what I could do to you_?]

Your breath catches in your throat.

Oh.

_Oh._

And then there’s scalding, molten, _unavoidable_ heat pooling in the pit of your stomach, and your mouth feels dry and your heartbeat stutters as the idea of what he’s suggesting sends a barely noticeable tremor down your spine that rocks the foundations of your denial.

<[ _Did you want me to touch you the way I said I would?_ ]

You exhale sharply.

You cross your legs.

You don’t tell him to stop.

The air in the courtroom, you are positive, has suddenly turned blisteringly, unbearably hot.

<[ _I think about touching you more often than I’d like to admit._ ]

<[ _But we can be honest with each other, can’t we?_ ]

His words—they slip into your veins like a slow-burning fire, spreading sleepily, gently, the kind that would wait for just the right moment to envelope you completely, sending thrills of warmth through your nerve endings—it’s not overwhelming and it’s not all at once but it’s still _there,_ right at the edges, creeping in _slowly–_

<[ _I think about having you spread out on my desk_ _with your skirt hiked up and your fingers wound in my hair—_ ]

Your resolve shorts out with a fizzle and a pop of radio static and white noise, a quiet, barely-audible murmur of, “oh my _god—“_

<[ _I would make you **squirm** , (Name).]_

You glance back at Wesley. He’s nonchalant, _bored,_ almost, his expression is bland and his gaze is polite and his hand is curled loosely around a silver new-model Blackberry, perfectly calm and perfectly casual, but—

His eyes are locked on you, smug and intent and _calculating,_ a tiny self-assured smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.

You swallow and tug at your skirt.

Your phone buzzes. You don’t want to look at it, you don’t want to read it, you can feel a terrible mixture of anticipation and dread and desire swirling in the pit of your stomach, sinking down to settle between your thighs—

<[ _I would make you **squirm** and **whimper** and **beg** , make your eyes screw shut and your pretty little mouth cry my name.]_

<[ _Would you like that?_ ]

<[ _I think you would_.]

Your hand curls into a fist, your nails sinking into your palm, the muscles in your abdomen clench and your thighs fucking _quiver—_

God.

_God._

You should turn your phone off. You should turn your phone off and stuff it back in your pocket and try to pretend that you can’t feel Wesley’s eyes raking over you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck—because he isn’t going to make this easy or simple or fun, no, he’s going to _ruin_ this for you, you can already tell, and the thing is—

You would let it happen. You _are_ letting it happen.

You want to touch him. You want _him_ to touch _you_ , you want his hands on your body and his mouth between your thighs and you shouldn’t, for a number of very sane, very logical reasons—

In front of you, Foggy stands up to deliver the closing arguments. He glances at you. You smile reassuringly.

A flicker of shame shoots through your chest.

Your phone vibrates.

<[ _Come, now, (Name), I know you’re reading this. I can see you squirming in your seat, crossing your legs, pressing your thighs together…]_

<[ _I want you to tell me something._ ]

<[ _Are you wet, (Name)?_ ]

It would be so, _so_ easy to say yes, to give in—just three little letters, really, it wouldn’t take more than a second—

<[ _Do you want me to touch you?_ ]

<[ _Do you want me to **fuck** you?_ ]

And it’s something about the word— _that_ word—and it’s something about it coming from him, something that made it sound filthy, vulgar, _raw,_ something that makes your pulse quicken and your skin flush with heat, that makes your entire body feel inflamed, unstable—

<[ _Is that it? Is that what you want?]_

<[ _Have you thought about what it would feel like, (Name)? Do you want to find out?_ ]

You type a response on the tiny keypad, your fingers unsteady, wavering—

                                                          ** _< [Wesley, what are you doing?]_**

<[ _I believe I’ve already asked you a question, (Name). It would be impolite to ignore it.]_

You stare at the screen. Dimly, you register the people around you standing up, moving towards the exit—it was over, finally, _finally—_ you register yourself standing up, walking over to Matt and Foggy, congratulating them, making a flimsy excuse about bright lights and headaches and needing to lie down—

Your phone vibrates.

<[ _I am going to get up, and I am going to walk over to the farthermost hallway. I want you to follow me._ ]

<[ _Is that understood, (Name)?_ ]

A shiver runs down your spine. You glance around the room, see the dim exit sign hanging above a doorway illuminated in red. You move towards it, but—

You hesitate. You hesitate and you bite your lip and you shift your weight, you distantly register the way the soft cotton of your underwear—already wet, of course they were already fucking wet—slip and slide and cling to your skin, you remember the flush that still hasn’t faded from your cheeks, you take a deep, shaky breath—

You follow him anyway.

Your shoes clack against the tiled floor, the sound too loud, almost abrasive, as you walk down the cramped corridor leading to the back exit.

Wesley smirks when you turn the corner—he’s leaning against the wall, posture relaxed in his neatly tailored navy blue suit. You lick your lips, and you notice his eyes track the movement, his pupils dark and dilated— and you want to laugh, you want to take advantage of the microscopic crack in his composure, taunt him for it.

You don’t.

You just stand there, and you let him walk towards you, you press your back against the wall—and then your skirt catches on the jagged edge and your skin is exposed, the backs of your thighs rubbing against the rough brown stone, and it’s almost—

It’s almost _erotic._

You run your tongue over your bottom lip, and release a helpless breath.

“I’ve made some— _arrangements,_ ” Wesley murmurs, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. His hands are gliding over the soft silky fabric of your blouse, avoiding your skin, not quite touching you but close, so, _so_ close, his fingertips just barely ghosting over your hips and your waist and the curve of your back. “You have two choices.”

“There is a car waiting outside,” he murmurs, tone challenging, “You can accompany me, or…”

“Or?” you repeat, breathless, hesitant, _lost._

“Or…” He lifts his hand, brushes his knuckles down the curve of your cheek—his eyes never leave yours, not even for a second.  “You can call a cab, and go home. The choice is entirely up to you.”

You pause.

You reach up to straighten the neckline of your blouse.

You lick your lips.

And when Wesley presses a hand flat and firm to the small of your back and guides you out the door and across the parking lot to a jet-black new-model SUV, you let him.

He opens the door. He steps into the car.

And he looks at you for a long moment, his features smug and self-assured and devastatingly confident, as if he already knows what you’re thinking, what you’re going to do—

You audibly swallow.

You get in beside him.

The door clicks shut.

Wesley allows himself a small, self-assured smile, leans forward, murmurs something to the driver—“I’d like some privacy, thank you—“

The grey divider rolls up.

And then he just looks at you, for a long sinuous moment that just lasts and lasts and _lasts_ —

“Wesley,” you say, and it’s not a question or an order or a complaint, no, it’s a _plea,_ small and barely-there and almost desperate—

He lets out a breathless chuckle.

And then—

He leans over and wraps an arm around your waist and he lifts you _up_ onto his lap—he’s strong, you hadn’t realized it but he’s _strong,_ god— and then his mouth descends over yours, steady and authoritative and _hungry,_ his hands trailing over your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, the swell of his cock in his slacks hard and hot and thick between your thighs—

“ _Wesley—,_ ” you say again, your words caught between a gasp and a moan as his hand sneaks up your skirt, his fingers dipping beneath the elastic lace waistband of your underwear.

His lips leave yours for a fraction of a second.

“I think,” he says, sucking a bruise into the side of your neck, “I think that ‘ _James’_ may be a little more appropriate at this point, don’t you?”

You open your mouth as if to say something, but you don’t know what, you can’t even think of anything remotely reasonable because his hands are inching lower, _lower,_ the heel of his palm pressing feather-light against your clit and his fingers dipping inside of you, teasing, _testing—_

Wesley kisses you again, he coaxes your mouth open, and he tastes—not quite bitter, but _tangy,_ sharp and faintly sweet, his tongue sweeping over the roof of your mouth and curling around your teeth. Dimly, you realize that none of this should be good, none of this should be remotely appealing but you’ve got your hands in his hair and he’s got his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, a rich low rumbling groan reverberating through his chest as he sinks two fingers into you and makes you _gasp_ into his mouth—

He kisses you harder, he’s chuckling breathlessly against your lips when you grind into his hand and the bulge of his cock in his slacks, his mouth moving down over the column of your throat, sucking and biting and tugging at your skin. You shudder, your face buried in the crook of his neck—

“You’re so _tight,”_ Wesley murmurs, as his fingers curl _up,_ eliciting a keen from the top of your throat that you’d probably be embarrassed about if there was anything left of you.  “So _wet. Christ._ Did I do this?”

You shudder, you gasp out a string of syllables that might be a yes or might just be his name and you roll your hips against him, needy—and you were right, he is _ruining_ this, he’s flexing his wrist and dragging his thumb over your clit and the edge of his watch is digging into your skin and the coarse fabric of his slacks is rubbing against the inside of your thighs and your breaths are mingling together and you are acutely aware of _all of it_ , you are trembling and frantic and—

“Wesley— _Wesley,_ oh— _please—“_

Your nails dig into his scalp and he lets out a hiss through his teeth and kisses you _hard,_ the rim of his glasses pressing into your cheek as your hips rock against him, as the car rolls to a stop—

You pull back, only about an inch or so— less than that, really.

Wesley clears his throat.

You look at each other for a moment. Wesley’s lips are bruised and his glasses are crooked but he’s still, _still,_ got that tiny slow seductive impossibly perfect smirk on his face—

You move off of his lap.

The air goes cold.

Wesley straightens his tie, adjusts his suit cuffs.

You have a bruise from his watch on the inside of your thigh.

He opens the car door.

The next few moments are painfully intense.

You allow Wesley to lead you into an expensive-looking apartment building, into the elevator and up to the penthouse floor with his arm around your waist, pace sedate and mind uncharacteristically scattered.

You enter his apartment.

The lock clicks.

There is a long, silent, tense pause.

But then—

He backs you up against the neatly-made bed, his hands on your hips, fingers tugging at the zipper to your skirt, and maybe, you think, maybe it’s the lingering buzz of your orgasm in the pit of your stomach, maybe there’s a _reason_ for why you’re doing this—maybe, _maybe,_ as you pull him down for another kiss—

Your skirt falls to the floor.

Wesley pushes you back onto the bed, and then he’s shrugging off his suit jacket—the fabric of his vest and his crisp white oxford stretches across his broad shoulders, makes him look even more attractive, _fuck—_ and he’s leaning over you and his thumbs are hooking in the waistband of your underwear, tugging them down.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he mutters, his voice low, sensuous, _silky,_ “You’re gorgeous.”

Your hands curl into fists in his sheets.

Because—

He’s staring at you, and he looks fascinated, hungry, and then—slowly, _deliberately—_ his tongue swipes across his bottom lip and the inevitability of what’s about to happen sinks in, the anticipation of what he’s about to do–

He freezes for a moment and glances up at you from between your legs and his lips are curling up at the corners and his breath is warm against the inside of your thighs. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t—

His tongue rasps over your skin, slow and firm and teasing—

Your fingers curl in his hair.

And then Wesley hitches your leg over the curve of his elbow and his mouth is white-hot on your skin and you gasp out his name, you shudder and moan something that might just be a string of “ _please please please”_ as his tongue circles around your clit, darting in and around as he slides two fingers slowly, _deliberately_ inside of you— and you can feel the first shocks of an orgasm building deep in the pit of your stomach and it has never been like this, no, it has never been this good and it shouldn’t be, but—

You’re trembling and his mouth is steady and firm and maybe his teeth graze your clit or maybe he’s just _that good,_ because suddenly there’s a shock of whitehot pleasure bordering on pain lancing through your bloodstream and Wesley’s eyes lock on yours as his tongue drags deliberately over your skin one last time, your nails dig into his scalp and your back arches and—

“Oh, god, _Wesley, ah—“_

“ _Hmmm, Christ_ ,” he groans, pulling back slightly, sucking hickeys into the delicate skin of your inner thighs, nipping and biting and tugging like he wants to leave a mark, like he wants to leave _proof,_ a reminder—

And then—

He gets up and he’s unbuttoning his vest and his oxford and tossing them to the floor—he’s not bulky, no, but he’s lean and strong and you can still see the long lines of muscle in his chest and his shoulders and his abdomen as he undoes his belt, pushing his slacks off with quick, simple efficiency.

You tug your blouse up over your head, you unclasp your bra—

He leans over you. He cups the back of your neck and then you pull him down to kiss him again, his cock nudging up between your thighs, hard and thick and heavy, and there are a taut few seconds that you just stare at each other before he surges forward—

Wesley stops. His eyes screw shut, his breath is hot and ragged and his face is tense and his fingers dig into your scalp—

“ _Fuck,”_ he grits out, his forehead pressed against yours, glasses slipping down his nose as he struggles to maintain his composure.

And then—

_And then—_

He starts to move, his hips rocking, stuttering, so fucking slowly that you think you might _break,_ sparking little tiny flares of pleasure that make you whimper and tremble underneath him and then you’re digging your nails into his shoulders and your breaths are coming out in little gasps and you reach up and wind your hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, drag him into a kiss that’s all _want_ and _need_ and _please, Wesley, please—_

And then he’s pushing into you _hard_ and it makes your muscles tremble, like your blood has been replaced with liquid fire, and maybe that would be uncomfortable, maybe, as his hips slam into the cradle of your thighs, it’s spreading through your body and it’s taut and electric and you’re not going to come again, no, but that doesn’t matter and you don’t care. You watch Wesley’s face as his jaw clenches and his eyes screw shut and his hips stutter, once, twice, three times—

His mouth falls open and he comes with a shudder and a groan, slumps forward, catches himself on his forearm. His breathing is ragged. His hair is messy and his glasses are crooked and there is a red-pink flush spreading across his chest as he collapses beside you.

Intellectually, you realize you should be panicking as the reality of what you had done sinks in.

But you’re not. Not when you gather up your clothes or when the chauffer Wesley called for you gives you a dirty look or when you see the hickeys on the inside of your thighs in the shower that night, because—

You had been right.

It was worth it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_One Week Later_

<[ _James is typing. . ._ ]

<[ _Hello_.]


End file.
